Home
by OperaGhost666
Summary: Sherlock returns to 221B Baker street. There isn't much more to be said except that John (being rather different from the books' Watson and being more quick to get angry) doesn't faint.


Sherlock didn't bother to knock. He never did. He merely turned the doorknob and pushed open the door, not really thinking about whether or not he was expected (or _un_expected). But for some reason he decided to knock before entering 221B, the home he had left for "death." The sound of heavy footsteps was all too familiar, but the fist to the face was not. Startled, Sherlock lost his balance and went tumbling down the front steps. When he got back up, the door had been shut.

Mrs. Hudson's voice said, "What's the matter?" as the door swung open again.

"John!" the landlady cried. "John, what have you done, dear?"

"I deserved it," Sherlock grimaced, getting to his feet. He was going to have a nasty bruise on his shoulder. He could feel it. "He punched me."

There was a spluttering sound as John struggled to find the vowels and consonants to justify himself. Finally, he said. "He jumped off a building," and pointed a finger indignantly at Sherlock, who chuckled. Mrs. Hudson made a clucking noise.

"Oh dear," she fussed. "Let's get you inside, Sherlock, and make you a nice cup of tea and some toast, and then we'll get you nice and cozy in bed. Is that all right, dear?"

Of course, on any other day, he would have said no, but the tears in her eyes forced him to nod—albeit grudgingly—and follow her into the house. Reluctantly, John pushed open the door, scowling.

"You could have called, you know," he said. Sherlock looked up sharply. Was John insane or just stupid? He opened his mouth to say so, but promptly shut it. John raised an eyebrow.

"I know," Sherlock sighed. "But I couldn't risk it."

John cursed. "Couldn't—WHAT? You couldn't—I'm sorry—RISK it?"

"I understand now that I should have—"

"Yeah, _now_ you do!" John cried. "_Now_ you understand that you could've called me! I can't believe you, Sherlock Holmes!"

"John, please!" Sherlock groaned. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"Of course you damn well didn't!" John shouted. His ears had turned an alarming red and his eyes were narrow slits of rage. "You don't know a DAMN thing about human emotion, do you?"

Sherlock struggled to find something to say. John had—as much as Sherlock hated to admit it—a pretty good point. He _didn't_ know much at all about human emotion. He could mimic and mock it, but he didn't know how to _deal_ with it, _especially_ not when the emotions belonged to someone he actually _cared_ about. Seeing that Sherlock had nothing to say seemed to calm John down. He deflated, much like a balloon with a hole poked in its side. Conveniently, or he might have fallen, there was a chair directly to his left. Sherlock watched him as he sank into it. His hand, which rested on the arm of the chair, twitched slightly, no doubt from anger and a great desire to hit something.

"Fine," he said, exhaling suddenly. "I've had just about enough, you know that?"

Sherlock's lips twitched upwards for a moment. He sat down at the table, his hands pressed together in front of him. He said quietly, "But you aren't leaving." It wasn't a question.

"What?"

"You're not leaving," Sherlock declared. "You have nowhere to go. You can't go to your sisters, I know. You're still angry at her for breaking up with her wife—"

"They're back together, if you must kn—"

"And now you're angry that you couldn't go to their wedding?" Sherlock guessed. John nodded briskly. "Oh this _is_ good, isn't it? I've been _so _bored lately, watching people pass by my window and figuring out their divorces and where their kids go to school—or where they've been expelled from—and it's all been so _dreadfully_ dull! And now you've brought me your wonderful family drama!"

John closed his eyes. Sherlock could almost _sense_ the anger rolling off of him in metaphorical waves. He paused. Wasn't he supposed to be welcomed back with a hug—though hugs weren't very comfortable occurrences for the antisocial detective—and a "Welcome home, Sherlock!"

He sighed. "John, I'm sorry. I really am sorry. I've been out of line, I know you're not used to me being around. But if you and Mrs. Hudson would kindly take me back, I would be grateful to stay here again… and get back to my work…"

John looked unimpressed. "Fine," he grunted. "But when _I_ way we're watching crap television, we're _watching_ crap television. Got it?"

"Got it," Sherlock said with a smile. He knew as well as John that he wouldn't be watching those TV shows, but it was good to be home.


End file.
